To One In Parma

The privilegeof even beingprovincial,to know the smallhumiliating city,the ever unfinishedcathedral,that over thereis the real where:we had none of it.No one heard of anything.The glit and shineand scut of it shimmeredon TV the satin crotchof the metropolisa 13” squareof already thinnedfantasy.No wonderthe saintswere martyring themselvesrepeatedly, furiouslyin imagination.This was somethingto die fora life outlinedin acid-bit etchingsobsolete as the namesof trees we were never givento know in the neighborhood.